


Neanderthal

by DINOSAURfly4 (GhostheartMetaphor)



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: M/M, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Post-Canon, Stanford Prison Experiment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostheartMetaphor/pseuds/DINOSAURfly4
Summary: There was no way to deal with that, not a well-educated Psychology student, two hardened gangsters, or a pair of Grimm, as here they were Ralph, Roger, Jack, Sam and Eric, together with their accomplices on a bloody, should-have-been-sealed ISLAND, impudent, spoiled, and yet depraved.





	Neanderthal

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a post-island story, where all boys were again put into something like the Stanford Prison Experiment. Might went a little bit dark; I shall hold my monster.  
> btw, I got a thing for love triangles.

She was pretty. Hair like dark gold, as they witnessed, set their heart aching with a pang. Under the spell some of them cried, out of utter fear, but not yet enchantment. It was about her spectacles, her secret precocity laid beneath a Cupid face. When Ralph returned with some spirit, he rushed to her, for the instant, an eye blinded by unnatural childish tragedy. He asked for her family name, without a single hint of gaiety, yet, the past had slowly caught up, linger on him: he never knew Piggy’s real name, to put it more truly.

“Bless him.” Jack exclaimed. He stood there, high up, along with Roger. His hair lit the pale room, on a bright Saturday morning, for a clutch of unutterables. In the state of others’ nerves, this could draw nothing but a flash of horror. They had been tricked, by cash or by lash, to be locked assuredly with old day friends from the ISLAND, for a moment collapsed. Nothing could pull them together again, at least presently, and a Piggy-ish girl did no good. Only Jack was smirking, eyes wandering; then at last fixed a minute on Ralph. Ralph stared at his as if a volcano was about to erupt.

Jack winked. “Had I changed for the pretty? Or why are you staring?”

“You slept well all these years?” Ralph made him blushed; and while he chattered his teeth he possessed the knowing: the blonde was accusing of him not having a heart, stroke by stroke. 

“I did have no ventricles for guilt.” Jack turned around to see Roger, visibly weighed this, a strength got by a single stare. “Oh, Ralph – you are upsetting the lady.”

He reached out to the female-version nerd, rather gently, almost soft. After a little the girl came back to him, holding his hand as tight as if to fortify herself against the increase of tense trickling down from the fluorescent lamps. 

“Ivy.” The great mystery of her not having hitherto spoken diminished; the boys relaxed a bit, but still only in silence. There was no way to deal with that, not a well-educated Psychology student, two hardened gangsters, or a pair of Grimm, as here they were Ralph, Roger, Jack, Sam and Eric, together with their accomplices on a bloody, should-have-been-sealed ISLAND, impudent, spoiled, and yet depraved. A sense of shade was dawning on them all; someone, knowing the juvenile delinquents all too well, at the deliberate touch of curiosity, called an assembly for gathering with intentions to make their power to resist, forget, and restart broke down. The lamentation would be flowing, if not at the presence of haunting memory of their victim.

A younger kid sobbed in despair, cheekbones bruised: once a littlun forever a littlun, in his prodigious experience, nothing more should be further questioned. Now they faced each other, not able to come to give, a picture of disclosing. They want to sink the whole subject, but rather violently, it was retaken. They encountered themselves on the ground of a probability that with recurrence – the recurrence of danger, inclining to a predestined loss.

Ivy associated the right remedy, for the dismay surrounding her, with the natural sense of her charm. Happily and positively, she announced her fortunate partaking in this psychological experiment, putting her little conscious stare straight to the red-hair man’s flirting grin. Here rises the strangest sense of misplacement, the biggest criminal and the possible sibling of a victim, looked at each other in sweet speculation, two depths of blue; Ralph grew furious, and Roger snorted with a cynicism in preference.

It was the bell, somehow, to settle this once and for all. After the ring came a voice flat, in pure placidity, echoing amid a smell of burnt. So Ralph see them best: twisted faces in respond to the tone, matured yet distant in this dusky, shining room, in the pretending brave blink of him, showed a comparative divinity; so that he couldn’t be more familiar.  
“Welcome,” The voice said, “To the Prison Experiment. Now, take a slip from the box on the table.”

They hadn’t noticed it before, naturally, busy paralyzed by horror, or wincing at the fair show. Now they saw it; Sam looked for a minute as if he saw it turned into a beastie, his brother trembling concurred. Ralph felt the sweat on his forehead; it was drenched. Roger cast the longest look on Jack, but Jack looked in vague pain all around the top of the room, the faint flame in his eyes still burning. The Piggy-ish girl was all excited, in a manner quite naïve and glad.

Ralph evidently tried to remember, but it dropped – he had lost it, whom the voice belonged to. He tensed in the desolation of his surrender, when the answer was just at the tip of his tongue; he knew it had to be something about the divinity.

Nobody moved. Their thoughts floated into a darker obscure, for the instant confounding and bottomless, then the voice urged them to execute the orders. Alarm screamed with red lights spiraling. 

“Do it now. Or none of you shall leave.”

The unspeakable anxiety drove a littlun to the table; young fevered face cannot name the exquisite pathos. Jack was the next, out of Ralph’s surprise, casually picked out one from the box; then was Roger, his executioner. Lining up soon came irrepressible, Ralph felt sick at all the return of his battle, and reached out, as if going on a great betrayal. He saw Jack made faces toward his pick, from the midst of his act, on the perception he soothed a bit, totally letting affect flame up for reassurance.

He glanced down on his note, to his own eyes free. Then as he saw it, he swallowed the shriek down in his throat. He paused, stupefied.

It wrote, “The jailor”.

He gave a frantic little shake, glaring vainly over others. They watched each other in bewilderment, but there’s a taste of omen, flooding the room, the wide, overwhelming presence.


End file.
